Off The Leash
by Mojave Dragonfly
Summary: Neal's tracker stops working. Now what do they do? Peter has to watch him while a new tracker can be obtained. Set early in season one.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not have the rights to the show, White Collar.

A/N: This takes place some time after "Something Good," though I wouldn't call it a sequel. The references to Riker's come from that story, though you don't have to read it to follow this one.

The FBI's dispatch and intelligence center was a high-tech state-of-the-art room full of everything technological that an agent or a unit might need. Every morning when Burke picked Caffrey up, he called the center to disable the alarm on Caffrey's tracker. The GPS would still report the felon's position to within five square feet, but Burke could take him around the city as necessary without lighting up an alarm board and getting an urgent call from Dispatch. If Burke ever lost track of Neal, a single call would pinpoint his position for him, and the man would have some explaining to do. When he took Neal back to June's at night, he called to have the alarm turned back on.

So he was not expecting an official call from Dispatch in the middle of the workday, with Neal seated at a conference table right in front of him.

"This is Burke," he said.

"Agent Burke, this is Dispatch. Do you have Caffrey's location?"

Burke raised an eyebrow. "Yes, he's sitting in front of me." This statement attracted the attention of everyone in the room; Caffrey, Cruz and Jones. "Don't you have it?"

"No sir. His GPS unit has stopped broadcasting."

"It's stopped?" A thousand suspicions flew through Burke's mind, only a few hundred of them allayed by Neal's indisputable presence there in the room. "When? What was his last location?" All the eyes regarding him looked puzzled, Neal's blue ones the widest and most innocent.

"It just stopped a moment ago, and we've reset the board but it hasn't helped. His last location was there in the HQ."

"Well, he's still here." Burke took the phone from his ear. "Neal, show me your tracker."

Eyebrows raised, Neal put out his left leg and hiked his pant leg up to show it. Both Jones and Cruz peered at it curiously. "Cruz, check that it's secure."

"What's this about, Peter?" Neal asked. He smiled winningly at Cruz as she squatted by his ankle with a don't-you-dare-try-anything look. The tracker's red light blinked, but that was normal because the FBI office was more than two miles from the hotel Peter had initially established as the center of its radius.

Peter's native caution advised him not to tell Neal anything, but really, it was too late now. "The GPS isn't broadcasting," he admitted.

"It's not?" Jones asked. "It looks okay to me," Cruz said, standing.

Neal's expression went suddenly slack, eyes staring at possibilities, before he grinned hugely and stretched. It was only that Peter knew him so well that he caught the expression before Neal put on a mask. "Well, well," Neal said. "I wonder what could've gone wrong."

The atmosphere in the room changed as everyone realized the slipperiest, smartest, most notorious criminal their division had ever collared was sitting there essentially free. Everything had changed. Neal clasped his hands behind his head, looked around at everyone and smiled.

Peter took two steps, putting himself squarely in Caffrey's personal space. "Don't. Move," he said. Neal's grin weakened as Peter put the phone back to his ear. Jones and Cruz tensed. "Get the tech guys in there right away. And I want someone in my conference room stat who can confirm Caffrey's wearing the real tracker."

"Peter!" Neal's grin ignited again. "You think I've actually forged a fake ankle tracker. Thank you. I must say, I am flattered."

Glowering down at him, Peter asked, "What did you do?"

Neal lowered his hands and shrugged. "You'll have to assume I'm lying, whatever I say."

"Try me," Peter growled.

"I didn't do anything, of course." Neal looked around at the FBI agents positioning themselves between him and the conference room door. "Guys, what are you worried about? I'm in the middle of the FBI's New York City Headquarters. Where am I gonna go?"

"Absolutely nowhere." Peter didn't move, but looked behind him to his agents. "Cruz, go apprise the AD that the grid's gone down on Caffrey's tracker. Jones, I want you to personally round up the tech-support and lab guys with the skills to figure out what's happened and get it fixed. Also, find out how quickly we can get another one of these over here."

The others chorused, "Right," and "On it boss," as they hurried out the door, casting worried glances over their shoulders.

"Neal, in a few seconds the AD and a division full of curious agents are going to be in here. But right now, I want you to listen to me. Don't do it."

Neal looked at Peter and partly lowered his cheerful mask. "Peter, you can't really think that I did—"

"It doesn't matter if you did or didn't. You can't tell me you haven't been sizing up every possible option you have in order to run if only you could get that thing off your ankle."

Neal swallowed a protest, regarding Peter with wide serious eyes.

"I know what you're capable of. Until we solve this, you're going to be capable of running no matter what we do. Listen to me. Don't do it. Don't throw everything away. It won't be worth it."

Neal's mask was gone, unless even this was an act. He looked at Peter with uncertainty, yearning, hope. "Peter …" Breathless. "It – Kate. I think Kate's in da –"

"No." Between clenched teeth. "Don't, Neal. Don't. Even."

Neal's face fell, but he breathed hard as his gaze moved restlessly from Peter to the consternation growing beyond the glass walls. Just before the AD and the others poured through the door, Neal gave Peter a final pleading, almost frightened look, before smoothing out his expression into one of innocent enjoyment at the attention.

With Neal being watched by … well, by everyone else while a tech guy studied his tracker, the AD pulled Burke into his office for some crisis management.

"What was Caffrey doing just before the tracker went silent?"

"He's studying our files on past forgeries. He was just sitting there reading, and doodling on a sketch pad."

"If that thing is dead, we've got a problem."

Peter rubbed his eyes. "We sure do. I hope to God they can fix it or get a new one here before the end of the day."

The AD stared at a wall-sized aerial photograph of Manhattan. "If they can't, we've got to keep him secure overnight. Where can we put Neal Caffrey that he won't escape from?"

"Not Riker's!" Now a different alarm rang in Peter's head. "We can't send him back there. No way."

"He didn't escape from there." The AD regarded him sidelong.

"He had the tracker on. He knew escaping would just make it worse." Peter's heart beat hard. He had promised Neal he'd keep him out of Riker's. "That place isn't impervious."

Peter's boss nodded. "He stayed in the super-max for almost four years. But we'd have to transport him …"

"He even broke out of there as soon as he had a reason to," Peter said. "If it's just one night, I suppose we could post a twenty-four hour guard on him."

"Put him in our own lock-up?"

Peter shrugged. He didn't have a good feeling about that, either.

"Burke, you're the expert on him. Is it possible he won't run?"

Peter tried to think, detached from the anxiety he felt. "He knows he'll go away for good if he runs. Or he'll spend the rest of his life as a fugitive. But he's got powerful temptations …"

"What's he thinking right now?" The AD pointed toward the conference room with his chin.

Both men looked through the glass office walls to where Neal stood, obedient, while now two of their tech guys moved radio scanners around his ankles. A smile lingered on his face, but his gaze was distant.

"He's afraid," Peter concluded, remembering that flash of a pleading, panicked look.

"Of what?"

"Of himself."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: This story is written for fun, not profit

* * *

Peter brought some sandwiches from the deli downstairs into the conference room that had become Neal's most immediate holding room. Neal looked at the sack. "So I take it we're not going out for lunch?"

Peter ignored him, and handed sandwiches to the other agents, gesturing them out of the room with his head.

Neal reached for his sandwich. "Okay, but this room's getting kind of stuffy."

The small pile of folders Neal had been leafing through had been pushed to the side. Peter reached for it and pulled it to him. "You've been in a lot smaller rooms for a lot longer."

"True." Neal inspected the ingredients of his sandwich. "Eventually, Peter, you're going to have to let me go somewhere."

"Yes, I am. And I suppose I'm going to have to watch you." Peter opened the top folder and leafed through its contents. Nothing he saw lessened his suspicions. Rather the opposite.

"Ew," said Neal, eyes sparkling from behind the pastrami. "And here I thought we were getting along so well."

"You do understand what will happen if you run?"

"Peter, I told you I wouldn't run, remember?"

"You said it right before you showed me the stats on that broken tracker on your leg. You meant you wouldn't run because you wouldn't be able to."

"So what happens to me?"

Peter sighed and unwrapped his own sandwich. "What do you suggest? I'd be curious to hear your idea of where we can put you overnight that you can't escape from."

"Oh-kay," said Neal, "and anyplace I name is the last place you'd want me."

Peter couldn't help but grin. It was always a game, with Neal Caffrey. "Or not, if that's what you're expecting." If only this game didn't have so much at stake for Peter.

"So really anything I say won't matter. You know what I think you should do?"

"What?" Peter bit into his sandwich.

"You should take me home." Caffrey gave him his widest smile. "Let me have dinner with you and Elizabeth."

"Oh, that's not going to happen."

"Why not? If you don't trust me to sleep in June's guest room, how about yours? I promise not to complain about the thread count on the sheets." He spread his arms. "This will be great." He was like a little kid promised a day off from school.

"There are more problems with that plan than I can count." Peter was abruptly tired of the game.

Neal dropped his arms back to the table. "Because I am so very dangerous."

They were both silent.

Neal stared at his sandwich. "Peter, I don't want to spend the night locked up. I've had enough of that. Project Runway's on tonight. This isn't my fault."

Against all sense, Peter believed him. Not that it mattered. He knew Neal was plotting. And, given the case file Neal'd been studying, he thought he knew what he was plotting.

"Hughes wants to send me back to Riker's, doesn't he?" Neal asked with dread in his voice.

There it was. Peter gazed at Neal for a long moment, sizing him up, bringing in everything he knew about Neal Caffrey. Would Neal really play him the way Peter thought he was? He decided to test his theory.

Peter slapped the file folder shut. "You'd like that, wouldn't you."

Neal blinked. "Like it? Are you crazy? The last time –"

"The last time, you didn't dare break out because your tracker was working. This time it would be different."

Neal looked up, regarding Peter with a searching gaze. "What is it you think I'm planning?" He looked aside, through the glass walls, toward Hughes's office. He brought his wide-eyed gaze back to Peter. "Peter, please don't let them send me there."

"Don't throw me in that thar briar patch?" Peter slid the folder toward him. "Interesting case file you were studying, earlier. I thought it was odd that you wanted to review forgery cases from hard copy files instead of on the computer. But if you're on the computer, we can bring up your viewing history and see what you were interested in, can't we? That one," he nodded at the folder, "you had on top. The Dali forgery at Riker's. What do you know about it?"

Neal paused, as if he didn't understand why this was relevant to the situation at hand, or, ankle. Still he managed a jaunty tone. "Dali was scheduled to give a talk at Riker's and had to cancel. As an apology he painted them an original painting and it hung in the lobby of that very building I was in until someone replaced it with a forgery."

Peter nodded. "Some staff members there confessed and were convicted."

"But the original was never recovered," Neal said with a small grin.

"That's what's in the file. What else do you know?"

Neal leaned back. "Nothing, yet. But it's an interesting case, don't you think? And it's always good to have leverage."

"You realize this makes it look like you're planning something at Riker's."

"Does it?" Neal spread his hands like an innocent man. "I told you what I was planning. Leverage. Information if I can find some. At the very least, the promise that the White Collar Crimes division of the FBI will give the case renewed attention.

"For if you ever end up at Riker's again."

"Yeah." Wide, earnest blue eyes.

Maybe so. But it didn't mean Neal's actions couldn't have two purposes.

Peter fixed him with his own most serious look. "If I tell Hughes this, that's the last place you'll ever go." And it didn't say thing one about whether Neal had caused the tracker's failure or not.

Neal bit into his sandwich. "If you say so."

Back in the AD's office, Peter watched Hughes pop a couple of antacids. "They can't find any evidence of sabotage at Dispatch," Hughes said, washing the pills with coffee. "The unskippable tracker seems to have gone the way of all unsinkable ships. What have you got?"

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't think he did it. If he was going to turn the GPS off, he would've done it at night, when he'd have a head start on us."

"What's this about him planning some scam out at Riker's? He could have thought he'd end up there again."

Peter glanced back at Neal. "He was studying the case file on the Dali at Riker's. I think he's got something planned for there." It wasn't a lie. Peter most certainly was not trying to play his boss. He had not been spending too much time with a con man. He was telling the strict truth.

"Well, he's never going there, then."

Peter nodded, hiding his triumph with a worried frown. "So we're back to 'where'. You know, wherever he goes, I'm going to be a wreck tonight, worrying about him. I think I need to stay and sit on him, myself."

Hughes's smiles had a lizard-like quality to them. "My thoughts exactly. I've decided what we're doing."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I have no right or rights to be writing White Collar. No profit is made with this, if that helps.

"Time to go, Neal," Peter said, producing his handcuffs. "Sorry about this, but it will be tomorrow before they can get us a replacement tracker."

The afternoon spent cooped up in the conference room had done nothing to Neal's well-groomed facade. "Oh Peter, really?" he said, on seeing the handcuffs. Despite his own afternoon spent in an agony of dread, Peter felt like a betrayer. He shoved aside those feelings. If Neal decided to run, playing Peter would have to be his first step. He couldn't let that get started.

"Right wrist," Peter said, more gruffly than he meant to.

Neal lifted an interested eyebrow at the fact he was to be handcuffed _to_ _Peter_, and held out his right arm. It was the click of a half second to turn Neal Caffrey from asset into albatross. Next was the walk through the office, with Neal in the humiliating position of perp, arrestee, suspect. None of which Peter had any actual evidence he deserved. But he was Neal Caffrey. Guilty until proven innocent.

Peter watched the faces of his agents as they passed, taking note. Smirks on some, blank poker-faces on others. Worried frowns on a few. Quite a few people murmuring to each other. Neal kept his head up and a slight swagger in his step. A sidelong glance told Peter he was still smiling at anyone who would meet his eyes, which was darn few people.

A driver brought the car to the underground parking door where Peter and Neal waited, so Neal was safely in the back seat of a locked car next to Peter without ever leaving FBI headquarters. A divider of bulletproof glass kept them isolated from the driver. Neal stared out his window as Manhattan crawled by in fits and starts. His stillness seemed unnatural, but Peter's trained eye saw the pulse that pounded below his collar line, betraying the adrenaline coursing through him. Peter spoke little, letting him stew. "Where're we headed?" Neal finally asked.

"Hotel. We're keeping you overnight the way we protect witnesses in danger."

Neal looked interested. "The Trump Tower? The Palace? Waldorf- Astoria?"

"Best Western, out of town."

Neal rolled his eyes. "That's right. FBI budget." He eyed the handcuffs at their wrists. "You staying with me?"

"Yeah," said Peter grimly.

Neal gave a small nod. "Tell Elizabeth I'm sorry."

"For what?" Peter asked, alarmed.

Neal's expression said, isn't it obvious? "For keeping you away from her again. Have you called her yet?"

"Of course." Of course he would have remembered to, eventually. Neal gave him a knowing smile and returned to staring out the window.

Peter cleared his throat. "Neal, about Kate …" Neal gave him cautious attention, not turning his head, but studying him sidelong. "When a woman tells you it's over and you keep looking for her, it's not healthy."

Neal sat up, willing to have this conversation, after all. "And it's stalking, as you pointed out before. Yes, I know."

"I know you said it's different when she's 'the one,' but you gotta see that everyone always thinks their girl is 'the one.'" Neal scrunched his face at Peter in an amused wince. "You don't fall in love with a woman unless you think she's 'the one.' That's how it works," Peter said. "And as for her being in danger," yes, he had heard what Neal almost told him in the conference room, "don't you see, we all want to be the hero for the woman we love. You're letting your heart play tricks on you."

Neal nodded and turned back to his window. "I'm sure you're right, Peter."

Peter sighed to himself. That had gone nowhere. He took a deep breath to steady himself. "Neal, I will make you a deal," he said.

Neal looked back at him. "Sure, I like to deal," he said with a small smile.

"Stay," Peter said, earnestly, "until we replace your tracker, and I will find Kate."

Doubt flickered in the eyes that usually regarded him with trust. "You'll find Kate," he said.

"I won't tell you where she is, but I will find her and make sure she's okay. I swear to you."

Now open disbelief marked Neal's face. "A minute ago you were telling me not to stalk my old girlfriend and now you're offering to do it for me."

Peter dipped his head in acknowledgement. "I'll have to do it off the clock, but I can and I will." He met Neal's gaze steadily. "I'm playing every card I've got to keep you from fucking up your life any farther. Stay and I will find Kate."

Peter had penetrated the man's defenses, he could tell. He sensed the thoughts churning behind Neal's gaze gone glazed. The fear and uncertainty Neal had shown in the office Peter now saw in full force. Neal swallowed, hard, and ran an unsteady hand through his thick hair, unconcerned that he had mussed his perfect styling. He drew breath to speak, then let it out, not meeting Peter's eyes. Peter held his tongue, not pushing, not insisting, not yet. Neal needed time to consider it, judge the offer, weigh his odds. Peter felt his own heart pounding.

"You could –" Neal stopped himself, and bounced his head back against the seat, staring at the roof of the car. His lips parted and he breathed hard.

Peter talked on, hope flaring in him, giving Neal cover to think. "Yes, I can. I'm good at finding people, remember? I've got the resources of the FBI. I can do this more quickly than you can, and I can keep it legal."

"But what if she is in danger? How would you know?"

"What kind of danger?" Both confused and triumphant that Neal would discuss the offer. "If I find her and she's all right, then she's all right."

"Not if – Peter, just because you find her at such and such an address, how does that say she's all right? She could still be – someone else could –" Watching Neal bleed panic and youthful rejection denial all over the car was more than Peter could take. He kicked into a kind of parental mode.

"Neal, unless there's something you aren't telling me, there's no reason to think she's in danger just because she left you. Now is there more to the story or not?"

"No, no," Neal moaned, leaning against his window, eyes closed. "Peter, don't do this to me."

Irritated, Peter yanked the handcuffs enough to hurt. Neal's eyes flew open. "Don't you do this to _me, _dammit. Now do we have a deal or not?"

Neal just looked at him, panting, trapped. Peter watched as he forced himself to calm and recover. He swallowed before speaking. "What do you want from me? My word?" he gulped.

"Exactly. Your word that you won't even try to run."

"My word," Neal said, as if the concept were new to him. Maybe it was. Peter knew that in numerous cons Neal must have given his "word" earnestly and convincingly, never for a minute intending to keep it. Now he was confident Neal was considering his word as something intrinsic to himself and valuable, not to be promised dishonestly. Peter caught his breath as he realized that in their brief partnership, Neal had not actually conned Peter in any apparent way until the Dali at Riker's thing earlier today. He'd seen him toss around lies and misdirection to suspects, security men and once, almost reflexively, to a priest, but in no significant way had he lied to Peter. Even the sleight-of-hand he pulled to keep himself out of Riker's was really aimed at Hughes, and Neal had left the carry-through in Peter's hands to forestall or complete, as he saw fit.

Something wrenched in his chest as it dawned on Peter that, in whatever Neal Caffrey way it worked, the man might be truly trying to go straight. If it weren't for that damned Kate.

"You'd take my word?" Neal asked, sounding awfully young. "And just let me go home?"

God, this hurt. "Of course not. I can't do that. You know that," he practically pleaded as he saw the bitter hurt on Neal's face. "Listen to me. Give me your word not to try to run and then keep it, and you'll score huge trustworthiness points. Huge. Look what a bonus could come out of this. I'll find Kate for you and the whole division might learn to trust you."

Neal swallowed again. "What if I can't keep it?"

Peter let out a held breath in exasperation. "Well, then the deal's off, obviously. But you _can_ keep your word. People do it all the time. You'd be an idiot not to." Peter kicked himself mentally for that last part as Neal turned away from him, back and neck tense. Out the window Peter saw they were arriving at the agreed-upon back stairwell of the hotel. He needed to make the call that would cause the staff person to open the fire door for them.

"I didn't mean that. Just – do we have a deal?"

Looking up at the hotel, Neal answered, "I think I'd better save my word for when I know I can keep it, sorry."

"You already promised me once you wouldn't run."

Neal looked over his shoulder at him, blue eyes calm and thoughtful. "Yes, I did. But you want me to promise not to try."

Peter dialed his cell phone. "I don't see the distinction," he grumbled as he put the phone to his ear.

"Maybe you will," Neal said.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: The rights to White Collar belong to someone else, not to me.

Peter led Neal into the fire escape stairwell, where he was met by two officers from the detail the NYPD allotted the FBI for witness protection duty. The officers gave Neal – dressed in his vintage apparel complete with hat -- brief appraising glances, then escorted Peter and Neal up the stairwell; one leading, one following. Peter and Neal had to jostle for position in order to find the best way for two men to go up narrow stairs with only the distance of handcuffs between them. Peter had been in this position before, and tried to hug the right side of the stairwell, but Neal, smiling at the officers, managed to take the wrong position, like a dog twining his leash and Peter was forced to twirl on the third step to get Neal in place. Neal grinned at Peter's glare.

By the time they reached the ninth floor, everyone was huffing except Neal. Peter had known from the first flight that every man in the stairwell, himself included, would be comparing his fitness to the others by the time they reached the top. He decided he was in no worse shape than the NYPD officers, though Neal clearly won their unspoken competition. Perhaps he'd had nothing better to do in prison than stay in condition.

They reached the room in the center of the corridor, just where they'd asked for it. The hotel always tried to accommodate law enforcement's requests. The sergeant in charge explained that, per procedure, all the rooms around theirs were empty, and officers would be guarding the hall from the elevators, which was also standard operations, in order to not betray which room was being guarded.

"No," Peter told him. "I want you right outside our room. Remember, this is a little different. We're not concerned with keeping outsiders out; we have to keep him," he jerked the handcuffs, "in. Bring a chair. I want you right here."

"You're not preparing against a rescue attempt, then?" Usually the NYPD assisted the Organized Crime unit, where the concerns were for rescue or assassination attempts.

Peter glanced at Neal, who seemed fascinated by the hotel artwork on the corridor wall. "Not in this case," he said, "though we're still keeping agents downstairs, as usual." Peter would have preferred not to have this briefing in front of Neal, but that would have meant taking him out of the cuffs. "Have they prepared the room?"

The officer nodded. "You can go on in."

Peter used the ordinary hotel key card to unlock the door, and led Neal into the room they would live in for the next twelve hours. The entryway with closet opened to the right onto a narrow but deep room with two queen-sized beds and a window beyond the farthest bed. The bathroom branched to the left from the entry way. The most noticeable differences from most hotel rooms were the large metal coffeepot perking on the dresser, the absent drapes, and the fact that the door to the bathroom was missing.

Neal glanced at the room, then removed his hat and deftly tossed it on a protrusion near the dresser mirror. "Where's the door?" he asked of the bathroom.

"I had them take it off." Peter produced his handcuff key and unlocked them. He put the handcuffs into his coat pocket and shrugged out of the coat.

"Why?" Neal asked, incredulous, his freed right hand caressing a remaining half a hinge.

"Why? So I can keep an eye on you wherever you go." Peter would have thought that was obvious, but the appalled expression on Neal's face was almost amusing. Neal shut it off, however, and looked around the room some more.

"Which bed do you want?" Neal asked.

"Neither. I'm not sleeping." Peter said as he hung his coat up in the closet by the door. "That's what the coffee's for."

Neal nodded, one eyebrow raised, gaze roving around. "Do I get to sleep?"

Peter considered. He removed his suit jacket and draped it over one of the two chairs next to the bureau. "Possibly." Wanting to keep his options open.

"Then I call that bed." The one by the window.

"You get this bed," Peter said of the one safely not by the window. "If you sleep." With his suit jacket off, Peter's pistol and shoulder holster were exposed. He resisted the urge to pull out his gun and check it. An unnecessary intimidation move. He'd save it for when he needed it. It did remind him of something, though.

Neal sighed and sat on the farther bed, facing Peter. "All right. What do we do about dinner?"

"Pizza's on the way." Peter held out his hand. "Wallet and phone, please."

Neal looked for a moment like he'd like to object, but he stifled anything he was going to say and handed both items over. He kept his own suit jacket on. "I'm afraid to ask what you put on pizza."

Peter opened the wallet. He was dismayed to see that Neal had not one but three credit cards, all in his own name. He said nothing, not wanting to admit his flags out on Neal Caffrey's financial activities hadn't reported the other two. He noted the companies. In the billfold was ten dollars. Neal wouldn't get far on that. "One is sausage and onion, the other's pepperoni," he said, going to the closet to put the phone and wallet in his coat.

Neal made no protest about the violation of his privacy. Not to say he didn't have any protest. "I don't get a say in what goes on at least one of the pizzas?"

"No. Be happy you're getting fed. When you buy the pizza, you can choose."

"You bought the pizza with your money." Neal's skepticism was warranted; he'd been cuffed to Peter for the last hour and would have heard him make the call.

"It's a standing order for these protective cases."

"So it's the FBI buying it for us both. I think I should have been consulted." Neal leaned down to untie his shoes.

"Hey, you are the felon, here."

Neal sat up and spoke with surprising bitterness. "As if I could forget. I can't eat decent food, I don't get to sleep, I'm under 24 hour guard and I can't even take a piss without being watched. Could we at least put the door back on the bathroom?"

"You can always go back to prison."

"Go ahead," Neal snapped, then halted. He and Peter regarded each other, while Neal considered whether he dared risk an ultimatum. Without Peter saying a thing, Neal backed down, swallowed his angry words, and looked appealing. "Peter, it's inhuman," he pleaded, sounding as reasonable as ever. "I was treated this way for four years and I was just getting a taste of human dignity again. Forget the rest of it. What do you say to just the door? A little decent privacy?"

Peter decided he probably wouldn't have called Neal's bluff, but Neal couldn't be sure of that. Pleased to be in charge, Peter said, "Boo hoo. You're trying to play me with shame. The door stays off. Nice try."

Neal gave him an exasperated look. "What is it you're afraid I'll do in there that you can't see?"

"There's a window."

"It's tiny. And we're nine stories up." All innocence and astonishment.

"I haven't forgotten Chicago, when I was chasing you. We were eleven stories up and the window was no bigger than that."

Neal stood and wandered to stand in the opening to the bathroom. "How do you know I went out the window?" he asked over his shoulder.

_What_? Stupid question. "It was broken and your fingerprints were everywhere."

Neal turned and gave him a smirk. "Well, I must have, then."

Peter's thoughts swirled. He knew Neal meant to get him off-balance, and, well, he'd succeeded for the moment. Peter had always wondered how Neal Caffrey had shrunk himself enough to fit through that window, but he'd clearly done so. He couldn't stop himself from examining his memories of another city, another hotel, another time his prey had slipped away . . .

Meanwhile, Neal slunk into the bathroom. "Look, Peter, have you considered there might be things I want to do in the bathroom that you don't want to see?"

Peter snapped back to the present. "Oh, like what?"

"Do I have to spell it out? Like jerk off. You get to go home to your wife, you know." He gestured at the bare tub. "You've even had them take down the shower curtain."

"I had them take down all curtains. And take out the towels. You aren't crude, Caffrey, not even when it's just the guys around. Now you're trying to embarrass me into putting the door back on. Not going to happen."

"So you'll just watch me, then?" Said with distaste and disdain.

"I'm not going to stop you, so yeah, that means I'll watch. You're not going to get me to take my eyes off you for a second. Somehow I think you can go one night without jerking off, though."

Scowling, Neal walked out of the bathroom, looked around like the trapped animal he was, and settled back on the bed. The wrong bed. He mumbled something under his breath. All Peter caught was ". . . old."

"What's that?" Peter demanded.

"Nothing." It was entirely possible that Neal Caffrey, con man, could make himself blush. Whether he could or not, he was definitely blushing as he looked away from Peter.

"So, are we done about the bathroom door?" Peter asked.

"We're done," Neal allowed.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: The rights to White Collar belong to other people, not in any way to me.

A knock at the door, and Peter walked to it, watching Neal until the walls of the entryway blocked his vision. He heard the officer's voice on the other side of the door, though he didn't make out what the man was saying. He unlatched the door and opened it to the extent the chain would allow.

"The pizza's here, Agent Burke," the man said.

Peter unchained the door. "Come in here," he said, so he didn't have to have a conversation out of view of Neal for long. The officer entered, holding two pizza boxes. "Just set them down there, and have some dinner yourself. I'll be right outside, making a phone call."

Neal bounced to his feet, all solicitous, helping with the pizza boxes, clearing a space. "Remember to give her my message, Peter," he said. Peter ignored him. "Watch him," he told the officer. "Don't let him do . . ." both men looked at him expectantly. "Anything," he finished. At Neal's now-Peter-how-disappointing look, he added, "He can eat. That's all. I'll be right back."

Peter called Elle while standing in the hall right in front of the door. Since the surrounding rooms were empty, and he hadn't heard the guard's words distinctly even when he was just inside the door, he felt confident he wouldn't be overheard. He explained the situation to his wife.

"How is Neal taking it?" she asked.

"We've got him locked down so tight he can barely breathe, and it might still not be enough to keep him from ruining himself. I feel kind of crappy about it, Elle, but I know he's thinking of running. He wouldn't even promise me not to."

Elle paused before asking, "Peter you don't think he'd hurt anyone, do you? I mean there you all are with your guns and your guards, but you're the first one he has to get past."

Peter smiled, glad that he could honestly reassure her. "No, I don't. Please don't worry."

"Well, I wouldn't," she said, sounding apologetic, "I mean, I've met him and I like him . . ."

The elevator farther down the hall dinged and a family of three emerged, studied the hallway signs, and turned away from Peter to trundle down the far hall.

"Everyone always likes him, that's the problem. But, no, I don't want you to worry about that at all. I followed his escapades for years and the worst thing I ever knew him to do was that one time he left a security guard tied up with duct tape in a comfy chair in front of a tv, remember?"

He could hear her smile. "I remember you said he put the tv on the channel the man wanted to watch."

Peter nodded. "And then he called the authorities as soon as he was away to tell them to go untie the guy." If anything, Peter was more concerned that Neal would try something boneheaded and get hurt. He decided not to mention that to Elle. He preferred having her worry about him.

"I'd much rather have him on our team," he told her. "It's such a waste. All this manpower and money. We were just getting started on a new case. You know, I could swear he likes being cleverer than the criminals we put away. It's not just that he's enjoying being out of prison. But whatever it is about Kate . . ."

"Love?" she teased. His wife, the secret romantic.

"Whatever. I've played every card I've got. The only thing I can think of he might love more than Kate is the fun of pulling cons and being smarter than other criminals, and I already offer him opportunities for that. But if that's not enough, I've got nothing."

"You can't give him the high life that he craves, Honey."

"No, I can't. But I know him pretty well, Elle, and I have a feeling . . ."

"What?"

Peter searched down the hall for other people, as if he were telling secrets. He lowered his voice. "He's planning to run, I know it. But honestly I think he could have slipped the leash half a dozen times by now. I have a feeling he's looking for an excuse not to do it."

"I'll be crossing my fingers for you both. Do you have to stay up all night?"

Peter glanced at his watch. Time to get back in there. "I should. You call any time, I'm sure I'll need it. Oh, Neal said to tell you he's sorry for taking me away from you again."

"Well, he should be. You take care of him."

"I'm doing my best."

They pledged their mutual love and ended the call.

The two of them sat on their beds, Neal on the one nearest the window, Peter cuddling up to the empty pizza boxes. Peter regarded Neal in silence while Neal watched TV, commenting to Peter as if Peter knew anything about the show that was on. "That one's really nice. Kind of inspired by Carol Hannah's season one collection, though. I hope they don't think it's too derivative, because I think it's an improvement." Neal lay on his bed on his stomach, propped on his elbows on the elaborate counterpane at the foot of his bed. "Aw, they cut him, but they kept that guy? He should never have made it to the final five. His dress was inspired by what? Boulders?" He had the volume on Project Runway up obscenely high in Peter's opinion, but since they had no neighbors, he didn't object.

Peter thought about Neal. For all that Peter once made himself into the world's expert on Neal Caffrey, art thief and forger, he found the flesh and blood reality – as opposed to the virtual construct he'd created – compelling. He'd once studied so many security videos and clandestine still shots that he knew Caffrey's face like his own wife's, but other than his arrest and trial Peter'd had little taste of the man's voice, soft and gracious. His expressions – teasing or intent, his movements – graceful, controlled but restless.

He thought about Neal's claim that he needed privacy for masturbation. Even if it was only another attempt to manipulate Peter and the immediate environment, it added to Peter's surreal new sense of Neal Caffrey as a living, breathing – if not exactly ordinary – man. He waited politely for a commercial and when Neal muted the TV, he asked, "Thought you had a girlfriend."

Neal turned a properly astonished expression on him. "What? Why?"

Peter thought about his facts before elaborating. "At first you visited the bars and nightclubs within range of your anklet. Then you stopped." Right around the time they nailed Ghovat. Something had changed. Peter hoped it meant Neal had found a girl.

"You checked my tracker?" Neal sounded resigned.

"I told you. Every day. What happened? You didn't charm some girl into your life?"

"Peter, does it occur to you that my love life might not be any of your business?"

"It is if I think it's important."

"Do you?"

Peter mulled it over. If Neal was looking for a woman, it meant that he'd accepted that Kate had dumped him. Neal was a romantic. Normally Peter would assume he'd seek out love, not just sex. On the other hand, he'd just spent four years in prison with only one conjugal visit allowed per year. "Could you just answer a question? Why did you stop going out?"

Neal shrugged. "Maybe I got what I needed." His smile managed to be lascivious, which meant it had nothing to do with that, after all. Interesting. Peter set aside his previous theories, and reconsidered.

"Something happened," he mused. "Right around the time we put Ghovat away. Kate had walked out on you. You were a free man." At Neal's raised eyebrow, he added, "Romantically, anyway. But then you stopped acting free. If you didn't find a girlfriend …" Peter had it. "You heard from Kate. She contact you?"

Neal rolled his eyes and took the mute off the TV. The show was back on, at full volume.

Peter pressed anyway, raising his voice to be heard. "Did you hear from Kate?"

"Peter, you're the one who made staying away from Kate a condition of my probation. I told you, the bottle meant good-bye."

"That's not an answer," Peter said, fixing a hard gaze on Neal.

"I have not heard from Kate," Neal said, but he didn't meet Peter's eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: White Collar belongs to USA Channel, not to me

* * *

When the show finally ended, Neal commented, "I cannot agree with that decision. This season has been a disappointment." He raised the remote and clicked the TV off. He looked at Peter as if he expected Peter's concurrence. "I miss Epperson."

"Who?" Peter poured his second cup of coffee. Might as well get started on the caffeine flow now.

"Never mind." Neal looked around the room. "What do we do now?"

"Hand me that remote. We look for something else to watch." Neal bounced to his feet with a dancer's grace and flipped the remote into Peter's grasp. He went into the bathroom. Despite his promise never to take his eyes off of Neal, Peter watched the TV screen scrupulously while Neal used the bathroom. Movement at the corner of his eye was good enough.

Neal returned to the room but didn't sit down. Peter found a Highlander movie and paused in his channel surfing. He glanced up at Neal who was staring at him like he expected Peter to do a magic trick. "Swordfights?" Peter asked. "A lot more action than double elimination dress designing."

Neal gave a little shake of his head and continued to stare at Peter with those vivid blue eyes. "What?" Peter asked. "What do you wanna watch?"

"I don't care. I've had enough TV. Can't we do something?"

"Like what?"

"Like—" Neal looked around for inspiration. "Let's go down to the lobby." Peter rolled his eyes. "Maybe meet some people, check out the exercise room …" Peter looked at him with less annoyance than pity. Prison must have been hard for a man with so much energy and restless imagination. Neal saw the look and smiled a tired smile. "No?"

Peter finished his current cup of coffee. "Sorry, buddy. TV is it." He thought of Neal's prison cell and all the drawings he'd found taped to the walls. "There's probably a pad of paper and a pen in that desk drawer. Draw something."

Neal raised his hands and dropped them. "What am I, five? You going to give me some crayons, too?"

"Hey, I'm just making suggestions. Most five year olds can watch TV."

"And it's bad for them," Neal said earnestly. "They should be out, running around."

"Stealing art, forging Viking maps."

That drew a genuine grin from Neal. "Having a good time," he said. "Playing."

Peter found himself sympathetic. At work he was able to channel Neal's energy into cases, keeping boredom from getting the man into trouble. Too late, he realized he should have brought some casework with them.

"Look, you can pick the channel, okay?"

"No, you watch it," Neal said. "I'll get out my crayons." With that, he pulled open the desk drawer and came up with hotel stationery and a pen. He sat down at the desk, furrowed his brow and began sketching intently.

Cautiously satisfied, Peter watched Connor MacLeod triumph over evil, one eye always on Neal. Neal sketched with enthusiasm for a while, then stood and walked across the room, passing between Peter and the television. He approached the door. Peter watched warily, but Neal seemed enthralled by reading the checkout times and instructions, or perhaps the fire escape routes.

The fire escape route map . . .

"Neal, what are you doing?"

"Nothing." He pivoted on one heel, smiled at Peter and walked back to the desk. Heads rolled and lightning struck on the TV. Neal took out a new piece of paper and sketched some more. Then he stood and walked across the room again.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing. I'm just walking."

"Well, stop walking to the door. It makes me nervous."

"There's nowhere else to walk."

"Walk down between the beds or something."

"Oh right." Neal chuckled. "How about I walk in and out of the bathroom?"

"Fine."

So Neal sketched and walked and Peter's brief feeling of ease evaporated. This was more than Neal's usual restless energy, this was nervous energy. Every time he walked into the bathroom Peter caught his breath, but he only looked around, fidgeted with things and then walked back to his sketching.

The movie ended and Peter realized he'd lost the thread of the plot somewhere. He stood and stretched and decided to call Elle before it got any later. His phone was in the pocket of the jacket hanging on the chair Neal was perched on. He reached over to fish it out, and saw Neal's sketch.

Kate.

Neal glanced up and a guilty expression flashed across his face before he replaced it with a proud smile. "Good, isn't it?"

Peter pressed his lips together. He set the phone down and shuffled through the stationery on the desk. "I am not going to give you a pat on the back for drawing a picture of Kate." He saw the other sheets. "Pictures of Kate," he amended. The coffee in Peter's stomach soured. "Neal," he said.

Neal looked away from him and stood. They looked at each other for a long moment, then Neal gathered up his drawings and put them neatly in the drawer. His expression was hard to read. Somewhere between apologetic and determined. "Neal," Peter almost whispered. "Stop."

Neal took two deep breaths. "Can I go to bed now?"

Peter licked dry lips. "In this bed," he said, pointing.

"You going to get off of it or do we share?" Neal asked. Somewhere he found a small teasing grin.

Peter growled something, scooping pizza boxes into the tiny garbage can, where they formed an upright diamond balanced on the top.

Neal smiled as he stripped off his jacket and hung it in the closet , removed his silk tie and stuffed it in a pants pocket, and unbuttoned his linen shirt. "We should do this again sometime, under better circumstances."

"Right. Like I'd rather spend the night with you than in my own home with my wife." Peter moved a chair to sit right beside Neal's bed, and moved the coffee pot to the nightstand beside him.

"Peter, you hurt my feelings," Neal said with no rancor. He pulled the bedspread back neatly and slid into the queen bed wearing an undershirt, his trousers and his socks. "You going to keep the TV on while I try to sleep?"

"Yep," said Peter. "It's more important that I stay awake than that you get your beauty rest. Sorry," he added when Neal didn't even give him a put-upon expression, just nodded and closed his eyes. "I'll turn it down."

"It's okay," Neal said. "I like it loud."

Peter shrugged minutely and started channel surfing. Who knew with Neal Caffrey? Some geniuses were eccentric, or so he'd heard.

Peter found a rebroadcast of a basketball game and settled in, drinking coffee and watching Neal pretend to sleep in the bed six inches from his knees.

A half a football game and another movie later, and Peter started to worry that he wasn't going to stay awake. He was sorely tempted to bring the guard in to watch Neal so he could stretch his legs and get some air, but he was reluctant to trust anyone else to guard him properly for very long. He realized with chagrin that he had let it get too late to call Elle. He'd drunk most of the coffee – Neal had drunk water – and what remained tasted overbrewed and burnt. Neal had lain still for hours now, breathing the slow deep inhalations of sleep.

Peter stood, stretched, clicked the TV into startling quiet and visited the bathroom to rid himself of the coffee, one eye on the motionless form on the bed. He paused in the doorway on his return, considering.

In sleep, Neal looked even younger than usual, his longish hair pushed into an unfashionable tousle on the pillow. What fevered thoughts had Neal wrestled with all evening, he wondered, and which ones had won out? Had he decided to stay and trust to Peter's supervision? It was certainly too early for Peter to make assumptions, but his captive had given him no trouble for hours now. The room seemed suffused with the miasma of sleep – quiet and lethargic; Peter wanted nothing more than to give in to it himself. He decided on a way.

He turned on the bedside lamp, turned out the overhead light and unplugged the coffee pot. He moved to the closet where his overcoat hung, extracted his handcuffs from the coat pocket, and returned to the side of the bed where he'd been sitting. He thought about removing his gun and holster, but found himself more uneasy at the thought of his gun somewhere in the room beyond his control than he was at having it near Neal. He checked the safety and snapped the holster strap over the grip. After also rejecting the idea of removing his shoes – no point in being too comfortable – he sat on the side of the bed beside Neal. "Neal, wake up," he said, grasping the man's near arm at the shoulder and pulling to get it free from the covers. Neal stiffened and turned, blue eyes wide and awake.

"What?" he asked.

"It's nothing," Peter said, as if to a startled child. "I just need your wrist." Neal watched with an incredulous expression as Peter took one of the pillows to pad himself in the chair and handcuffed the two of them together again. He let his own arm drape over the edge of the chair nestled close to the mattress. Neal's arm had to be bent up toward his head. "Now go back to sleep." If you were asleep, he added mentally.

"Peter . . ." Neal sat halfway up, looking from the handcuffs to Peter's face. Once again he found Neal's expression difficult to read – wistful or something. Then a slow grin grew on his lips and he raised his eyebrows.

"Don't say it," Peter said. "Just don't."

"You're killing me, Peter. There are so many things I could say."

"Shut up and go to sleep."

Still grinning, Neal lay back down. He shifted to lie on his side, facing Peter. "Have you and Elizabeth ever –"

"Shut up," Peter said.

Neal snickered, amusement in his eyes until he obediently shut them. They sat and lay together like that for a long time. Peter wasn't comfortable enough to sleep, but that was just as well. He drowsed as much as circumstances allowed, feeling about as secure with Neal as he was likely to get.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I have no rights to White Collar. They belong to USA Network or someone there, I presume.

He woke with a distinct feeling that something was wrong. To begin with, he _woke_, which meant he'd been _asleep_. He had been, too, in a dream world not quite faded from his consciousness. Rather than springing to alertness, some caution in him kept him still. He cracked his eyelids and saw his arm draped over the chair, the handcuff dangling free from his own wrist. He heard movement in the room. Slowly, carefully he lolled his head so he could see the room from mostly-closed eyelids.

Keeping his breathing even despite the adrenaline coursing through him, Peter saw Neal, still in the room, thank God. The panic eased in Peter's chest. He decided to watch him. Neal was fully dressed, though without the hat or his tie. He paced, rather as he had earlier, from the room's window to the door and back again. When he passed directly in front of him, Peter saw Neal was barefoot, but wore his socks on his hands with the toes cut out so the material covered only his palms. That was interesting.

On his next pass, Neal stopped at the window and grew very still. Peter prepared to abandon his charade and put an end to whatever Neal was up to, but the opportunity to observe Neal when he didn't know he was being watched was too tempting. Neal stared out the window, though Peter knew there could be little to see in the dark. After a moment, Neal slowly leaned his head forward so his forehead touched the glass. The moment seemed dreamlike, unreal, Neal stopping his activity to breathe and consider. Peter waited, fighting the urge to hold his breath, keeping the illusion of sleep.

Neal closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them and turned to look at Peter. He strode across the room, rounding the bottom of what had been his bed, to Peter's chair where it sat between the bed and the wall. "Peter, wake up," he said, shaking Peter's shoulder lightly. "I can't stay. I'm sorry, I'd like to, but I have to go."

Peter opened his eyes, looking up into earnest blue ones. "That's ridiculous, Neal," he said, his voice rough from sleep and coffee. "You wouldn't wake me up to tell me you're running."

"No," Neal said with an apologetic tip of his head, "but I had to do this." While diverting Peter's attention to the hand shaking his shoulder, Neal grasped the dangling handcuff and snapped the other end onto the bedframe, immobilizing Peter's right hand.

"Neal," Peter yelled, grabbing for the man with his left, a move which Neal anticipated. He ducked back, produced his tie from his pocket, and caught Peter's wrist in a loop of it like a fisherman netting a leaping fish. Moving fast, he dived beside Peter's chair and tied the tie to something Peter couldn't see. "Officer," Peter bellowed, just as Neal came up with the tv remote control and clicked it on. Loud, of course. Peter yelled again anyway, and kicked. His feet were still free, and in the close quarters he connected with Neal's torso, though he hadn't had enough swing to put much strength into the kick.

Unfazed, Neal danced back out of range and past the wall to where he could see the door in the entryway. He watched it for a second or two as Peter yelled for all he was worth, trying to be heard over the crowd of World Wide Wrestling fans. Too late, he realized his position and might have kicked himself if he could manage that. His chair was around the corner from the entryway, with the walls and spaces of the closet and probably the bathroom of the next room between himself and the corridor. The door was heavy and cut sound well. He remembered how little he could hear of the guard outside while standing just on the other side of the door. The rooms on all sides of him were empty, as were the rooms above and below his. No one would hear him there. He hauled on the bed frame, but without leverage from his legs – and his left arm tied to whatever it was, prevented him from standing – he had only the strength of his arm to lift the bed. He raised it a few inches and let it fall onto the carpeted floor, but the sound was muffled and unimpressive. There was no one in the room below, anyway. "Neal, dammit," he swore as he struggled.

Satisfied that the officer outside was not pounding on their locked door (locked and chained! And why exactly had he locked _out_ his only reinforcement?), Neal looked back at him, eyes wide and purposeful. "Don't pull too much on the tie," he said. "The silk will only get tighter and cut off your circulation." Peter craned his neck around to the left to see what he was tied to. By straining and wiggling his chair in its cramped space he managed to see the elbow of a water pipe, unobtrusively near the floor, entering their room for a few inches before turning and passing into the wall of whatever lay behind their closet. He was tied to plumbing. Not good, and indeed, the silk at his wrist cut painfully into him, now. He made himself relax that hand.

Neal pulled up the counterpane on the far bed and muffled his left arm with it. He pulled off the shade of a heavy lamp, and hefted the base.

"Neal, you can't go out the window," Peter cried. "We're nine stories up."

Neal shook his head. "I don't have to reach the ground, I only have to reach another window."

"The windows in this hotel don't open."

"They break, and there's no one in the rooms around us. Besides, the windows in the stairwell open."

"They're tiny."

"They're bigger than that bathroom window you thought I could get out of."

Barefoot and with elastic traction on his palms. Neal really did think he could climb the outside of the building. Remembering Chicago, Peter had to admit that maybe he could. All he could think of to do was stall. "Wait! Before you go, tell me how you did it. How'd you get out of the handcuffs?"

"You want me to stay and gloat? That never goes well for the bad guys in the movies."

"This isn't a movie. Just the 'cuffs. Tell me."

Neal shrugged. "Simple magician's trick."

"Bullshit. Magicians use rigged handcuffs. These," Peter jiggled his right arm, "are real."

"Yeah," Neal smiled at being caught in the lie. He set the lamp back down, and fished in his trouser pocket. He brought out a key. "I lifted Lauren's key earlier." He took a step from the window and placed the key on the desk. "She'll need it back."

Peter opened his mouth for his next attempt to stall, but paused as the cell phone he'd left on the desk buzzed. Both men stared at it as it buzzed a second time. "It's Elizabeth," Neal said. They met each other's eyes for a second.

"If I don't answer, she'll know something's wrong," Peter said, though it wasn't true. Neal could well suspect he was lying; he'd seen Peter ignore calls, even from Elle, when he needed to. "She'll notify dispatch."

In a burst of motion, Neal leaped on the bed, approaching Peter's chair as he unwound the counterpane on his forearm and removed his belt. Staying on the bed, where Peter's feet couldn't reach him, Neal muffled Peter's mouth with the counterpane and buckled it in place with the belt. Peter yelled, mostly as an experiment, and found that he could make sound but no words, and the sound wasn't very loud. He was relieved that, as gags went, this one was easy to breathe through, though the extra material draped around his shoulders in an undignified way. Juggling the phone and the TV remote, Neal retreated off of the bed. He muted the TV and answered the phone.

"Hello Elizabeth," he said, sounding calm and pleased to talk to her. He glanced at Peter with a congenial expression as if everything was normal and they were just enjoying pizza and movies. "No, he can't talk right now. You wouldn't panic or anything if I said he was tied up, would you?" Making it a joke. Ha ha. Peter glared his best glare. "Oh, we're getting along as well as can be expected. He's very bossy."

He listened for a moment, smiling. "Yeah, I know. Say Elizabeth, tell me something?" He glanced at Peter. "What would you say is Peter's favorite TV channel?"


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Disclaimers are in part one. Sorry for the delay to this part, but there was this holiday *flaily handwave*

His smile faded at whatever he heard, and Peter guessed he didn't expect the reply he got. Peter sucked in a breath and started doing his best to yell to her. Neal backed away a few steps, still listening. "No, he can't, Elizabeth, I'm sorry." A pause, while Neal looked resigned. "Because he's gagged right now. Yeah. His tone changed to pleading. "I didn't, Elizabeth, you know I wouldn't do that, it's just that I have to go—"

Keep him talking, Elle, Peter prayed, though he hadn't thought of anything he could do at this point, even with more time. He wasn't going to get out of his own handcuffs, and the silk tie was not going to break. No one would check on them for some time. Still, the longer he could keep Neal in the room, the less of a head start he'd have once Peter was free.

He watched, fascinated, as Neal's expression went slack as he listened to whatever Elle was saying. Neal's gaze flicked to the window and back, never resting on Peter. He shook his head. "I don't think so. No, I just don't see how—" Then a slight tip of his head, a tiny "tell" that spoke volumes to Peter who had studied the man so long. She'd caught his interest. "I – no really, I'd like to. I like the idea. Really, but at this point, I'm not sure I can." The briefest pause for a query from Elle, and then, "Because, I've already assaulted a federal agent – " Neal almost dropped the phone at Elle's reaction to that. A distant part of Peter's mind noted that he'd laugh at Neal's discomposure if the situation weren't so dire. Neal's eyes went wide at the response he was getting. "No, no," he cried. "Assault. It's not the same as battery. I swear to you I didn't hurt him. I told you that. He's all right. I'm a little worried about his left hand, but as soon as I'm away—" Neal tossed the phone on the bed and stared at it like it was a wild animal that had bitten him.

Now Peter did chuckle. He couldn't help it. This was the moment when he'd probably lost Neal forever; Neal had cut Elle off and would go out the window now, but Peter would always treasure the ability his darling wife had to strike terror in men's hearts. He knew exactly how Neal felt, and when Neal met Peter's gaze, Peter let his amusement show. Abruptly Neal lost his horrified expression and laughed.

Slowly Neal picked the phone back up and put it to his ear. "Elizabeth? You still there? Please don't worry. You okay?" He must have been reassured, because he relaxed and took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, okay." He listened some more, a slight smile on his lips. "It's a good idea, but I may have gone too far to go back at this point."

Go back? Elle had actually said something to make Neal think of going back?

"Oh," Peter yelled. "Oh, oo haa-eh"

Neal crinkled his eyes at him. "Yeah, you say that now, but once I untie you, everything's different."

Peter shook his head vigorously. "Oh," he said, feeling ridiculous.

Neal turned his attention back to the phone. "Elizabeth, I have to talk to him. Please give me five minutes. Don't do anything for five minutes and I promise either Peter or I will call you back. Okay? Five minutes." He listened. "Okay, thanks. I mean it. Thanks." Neal clicked the end button and tossed the phone on the bed again. He regarded Peter soberly. Peter waited.

Neal took a breath and spread his hands. "Peter, I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not going to try to negotiate here, or ask you for any promises. I know it doesn't work like that. Just let me say I'm sorry and all I want is to go back to how things were." Peter gave him a steady look. Neal swallowed. "I know you think it should be easy to stay straight and honest all the time, but it's not that easy for me. It's not my habit like it is yours. I fall off the wagon. You didn't turn me in over the Haustenberg. I'm sorry about that, too. Moz says I have no impulse control. But I want back in. Please." He glanced toward the door. "I'll take out the gag, and I'll leave the tv off. You can yell for help if you want to, or just tell me to unlock the door and invite the guy in so no one has to break the door and I will." Peter nodded.

Neal hesitated a bare moment, then walked to Peter's chair and took out the belt and the counterpane. Peter worked his dry mouth for a moment and then said, "Neal, untie me now."

Neal's eyes grew large with apprehension. "What are you going to do?" he asked in a shaky voice.

"Untie me, and then you'll know."

Neal went to the desk for the key and returned, looking pale. He paused before reaching for the cuffs. "I really don't want to go back to prison, Peter. I want to help you and keep doing what we've been doing."

"Unlock me, Neal. You can't trust any promises I make like this, and I'm not going to give you any. And you'd better not expect any special consideration unless you act in good faith. Unlock me now, with no promises."


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Disclaimers are in part one.

Looking deeply unhappy, Neal unlocked the handcuffs and stepped back. Peter swore under his breath and reached around to release his painful left hand. Neal made a motion toward that side of the chair, "You want me to –"

"Don't you move," Peter barked. Neal froze. The knot finally yielded to him and Peter pulled his swollen hand to his chest and stood, rubbing it.

"Peter …" Neal said, watching warily. Standing, Peter was able to look down at the other man; this infuriating, tricky, unpredictable, clever, treacherous – did he mention infuriating – Neal.

His gaze on Peter's face, Neal sat on the bed.

Peter walked back and forth in front of Neal, rubbing his hand and trying to get his temper under control. "You – you – do not get to do that to me," he said.

"Of course not," answered Neal, contrite.

Neal was wrong about one thing: what he'd done was more than assault, not that assault alone wouldn't be enough. Peter could unquestionably nail Neal for that. The thing was … the thing was … all it would do is send Neal back to prison. Peter could do that to Neal at any time. He didn't need justification. But he'd have to explain why he'd picked now to do it, which would be deeply embarrassing.

Well, first things first. "My phone," he demanded. It lay on the bed next to Neal. Neal scooped it up, handed it over, and snatched his hand back like he was afraid a handcuff was going on it at any moment.

He hit Elle's speed dial and she picked up on the first ring. "Peter?" she asked, sounding worried.

"It's me, Elle," Peter said, "everything's all right."

"Oh, thank God, Peter," she said. "You're really all right?"

"I'm fine, Elle. And Neal is …"he paused, glaring at the harmless-looking man sitting straight-backed on the end of the bed, "in a lot of trouble. Did you call anyone?"

"Oh, Honey, I should have, shouldn't I? It's just I promised him five minutes. Do you need me to do anything?"

"No, Elle, it's all right."

"Did he let you go on his own?"

"Well, yeah, except for you. What did you say to him?"

"I – I can't tell you right now. We can talk later. What will happen to him?"

She couldn't tell him? What's with that? "I don't know yet. I haven't decided."

"Is it only up to you?"

Peter glanced at the door. As shocking to his pride as the incident had been, no one knew of it yet. Neal hadn't gotten so far as to break a window, and nothing happening in the room had been heard by the NYPD officer on sentry duty. "Yeah, pretty much."

"Good," she said. "I know you'll make the right decisions."

"Oh, you do? And you know what those should be?"

"Now, Honey, of course not. I'm just glad it's up to you. If it comes up, please tell him I wouldn't tell you what I said. I'll explain later."

Peter opened his mouth in confusion, then shut it. "Okay," he said. "Love you."

"Love you."

Peter put his phone away and regarded Neal. He leaned against the desk, his legs crossed at the ankles. "Give me one good reason why I don't put you back in prison for this little stunt."

Neal swallowed, real fear behind his eyes. "Only one?" he ventured.

"One. A good one."

Neal seemed to consider, perhaps sensing that he had to choose carefully. Peter really did need a good reason, otherwise for the sake of his own ego he would have to strike back, hard, and prison was as hard as it got. Only then he would lose Neal. He needed Neal to talk him out of this, but not with apologies or promises, with simple facts.

The air was thick with their thoughts. Peter examined his potential excuses, weighing them against his fury and how likely he was to get past it. Would Neal try using Elle? What had Elle said to him? Did she promise him something? Oh, Neal had better not take that tack; Peter would not be happy to have his wife used against him. The best reason would be that Neal was helpful on cases, but it fell short in the face of this. They needed trust between them for their "partnership" to work, and that trust lay in tatters next to Neal's silk tie.

Neal looked up. "Okay," he said with the tone of a man preparing his last words to the executioner.

"Let's hear it."

"I never promised you I wouldn't try to run. I only said I wouldn't do it. And I haven't."

Peter gazed into Neal's eyes as Neal gazed back. Unbelievable. Neal was unbelievable. Peter pushed off the desk and stepped past Neal to hide the small smile he couldn't smother. With one unexpected choice, Neal had given him the needles he needed to knit up their raveled trust. He picked up the tie and handed it to him, showing him the smile. "No, you didn't," he said.

"Can I stay?" Breathless, the mangled tie in his hand ignored.

"You – are …" Peter couldn't finish. Too many ways to finish that sentence, and it was cruel to keep Neal in this kind of suspense. "Yeah. Don't do this again." He rubbed his wrist.

Relief lit Neal's face and the man bounced (yes, bounced) to his feet. "Thank you, Peter, thank you. You won't be sorry, I promise."

Abruptly exhausted, Peter said, "Don't promise. I don't want to hear it; just sit down somewhere and don't bother me."

Still bouncing, but clearly pressing his lips together to keep from talking, Neal brushed by Peter and sat in the chair he'd been in. "I'll sit right here. I won't move until someone puts a new tracker on me. Do you want to 'cuff me to the chair? Here are my wallet and phone again."

"Keep them. If you're going, you're going. What did Elizabeth say to you?"

Neal smiled his brightest smile. "What did she say she said?"

"She wouldn't tell me."

"Then it really wouldn't be right for me to betray the confidence." Neal stretched his legs as far as the bed and the wall would let him, and showed every sign of living up to his promise to sit there until a new tracker came.

Peter cast his eyes heavenward and went to the door. He unfastened the chain and turned the latch.

"Officer," he said, sticking his head out. He was startled to see a pretty young woman in a NYPD uniform sitting in the chair, reading a book. Of course, they'd changed shifts at midnight. She jumped up, wary, dropping the book onto the chair. "Nothing's wrong. I'm Agent Burke," he said, putting out his hand.

"Sgt. Buehler," she said, nodding and giving his hand a shake.

"Would you come inside with us, please? I'm not expecting any external threat and could use the help staying awake."

She followed obediently into the room and gave Neal an interested look. Neal came to his feet, forgetting his vow to stay in the chair, so he could shake her hand with a stunning smile. "Sgt. Buehler, meet Neal Caffrey," Peter said wearily, annoyed that Neal clearly thought a pretty woman guard was his personal gift from heaven. "Neal, sit back down."

Neal sat with a promptness that made Sgt. Buehler raise her eyebrows in surprise. "I'll let you two get acquainted. I really need to stretch my legs. Sgt. Buehler, he is not to leave the room under any circumstances. I don't care if the fire alarm sounds, you wait for me, is that clear?"

"Yes sir," she said.

"Neal," he put warning into his tone, "don't let me down now."

"Peter," said Neal solemnly, eyes twinkling, "virtue is its own reward. I see that now."

To be continued


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer in part one

The remainder of the night remained uneventful. Peter watched Neal turn his charm on high and aim it all at Sgt. Buehler. What exactly he expected to accomplish by that Peter couldn't discern, but the young woman seemed to deal with him professionally, if she did look a little blinded by the spotlight of Neal's interest from time to time. When dawn's welcome light hit the windows, Peter's body clock began protesting in earnest that something was missing -- something called sleep. He called the desk and asked them if housekeeping could bring up more coffee.

Relaxed by both creeping exhaustion and the relief that came with resignation, Peter sat in the room's other chair, his back to the window, sipping coffee and watching the show. Sgt. Buehler's book was about a serial killer who had killed young women during Chicago's World Fair in 1893. Neal complimented her on her reading tastes -- so well focused in support of her career goals. The woman cautiously allowed that it was assigned reading for a professional development class. She sat in the chair she'd brought inside, her back to the bathroom's opening. Neal stayed seated in the chair he'd bound Peter in, as if it was a penance. Peter was 99% certain that Neal intended to stay. He'd had his chance and hadn't taken it. Neal's own collusion was Peter's safest bond on him, and he didn't even know why he had it.

What did Elle say to him? His thoughts unfettered by anything he had to do, they danced around this question. Sgt. Buehler's presence prevented him from asking Neal about it, so he worried at the thought like it was a sore hangnail. What could Elle threaten that would affect Neal even if he ran? What did Neal want that Elle could offer?

His imagination went to some dark places at that thought, but he reined it in. These were things Elle would never offer, and, to be fair to him, Neal would never ask. Peter excused his disloyal imagination on the grounds that a career in law enforcement had made him vulnerable to cynicism. But he was right back where he started. What on earth did Elle say?

Sgt. Buehler finally cut Neal off, saying she wanted to read her book now. Peter saw Neal bite back his disappointment, but he quit his flirting and looked around for something else to do. Neal did understand boundaries, he just didn't like them. How did he have so much energy? Well, Neal had allegedly gotten some sleep. Neal asked Peter to hand him some paper from the desk, and spent the rest of the time folding origami figures.

What did Elle say?

Even Neal looked a little wilted by the time two Marshals arrived at midmorning with a new tracker. He needed a shave and so did Peter. Peter released Sgt. Buehler and stood behind the Marshal's agent while he removed Neal's old tracker and attached the new one. Neal watched the procedure soberly, with hooded eyes.

When it was done, both Peter and Neal heaved sighs and began gathering their few possessions with a sense, for Peter, of things returning to normal. Neal donned his hat, but, examining himself in the mirror, declared the tie ruined. Peter quirked an eyebrow at him at that, but Neal only gave him a tired smile.

What did Elle say?

They didn't discuss it in the car, either, since the Bureau had to send a car for them, complete with driver. Pulling an all-nighter gave them license to have the day off unless there was some operation that required Peter to work straight through. The driver took them first to June's, where Neal got out, but held the door open to ask, "Is the center of my radius still the same?"

The Marshals had never reprogrammed the center to be June's house. Peter wasn't actually sure he wanted that. He'd have to think about it when his mind wasn't so foggy. "Nothing's different, for now," Peter said. "We can talk about changing it at the office tomorrow. We may talk about restricting your range, too."

"What?" Neal cried.

Peter shook his head wearily. "Neal," he said.

"Oh." Neal looked at his shoes.

What did Elle say?

"It's just talking," Peter said. "We'll all be more rational once we've had some sleep." Neal nodded and started to close the door. "Neal," Peter said. Neal paused, expectant.

Peter glanced uneasily toward their driver. "What did Elle say?"

Neal regarded Peter with a poker face. "I can't tell you," he said. "See you tomorrow."

What did Elle say?

Elizabeth awaited him, dressed for work she'd delayed leaving for. She gave him a deep kiss and a long hug while Satchmo, jealous, circled them, his tail fwapping Peter's legs. It was good to be home. "Elle, I'm all right," Peter murmured into her hair.

"I know," she said, her eyes bright. "It's just better when I can hold you."

His eyes were scratchy with lack of sleep. "Elle, I have to know, what did you say to him?"

She looked so fetching when she blushed. She sucked her lips in between her teeth. "Is it really bothering you not to know?" she asked, eyes wide.

"Yes." A thousand times, yes.

She smiled sympathetically. "Well, that was the idea." She disengaged from him and picked up her voluminous shopping bag full of table centerpieces. She gave him another kiss, one that resembled her good-bye peck, but lingered just a little longer. "I have to run. Get some sleep, Honey. I'll tell you when I get home."

So Peter still had no answers. He showered and shaved and then he and Satchmo climbed into bed. Worn out and finally in his own comfy bed, Peter nonetheless had trouble falling asleep.

What did Elle say?

He woke mid-afternoon. He had the bed to himself and heard Elizabeth in the kitchen, talking to Satchmo. He threw on some sweats and padded downstairs. He found her at the dining room table, seated at her laptop. She looked up with a smile as he leaned over and put his arms around her. "Tell me," he said to her earlobe.

She twisted, her smile broadening. "Okay." She stood. "I want you over on the couch, though." Peter led her to the couch, where she kicked off her high heels and cuddled into his chest. "I was trying to think of anything. I babbled something about how even if he hadn't hurt you, he'd hurt your career, and me, and –" She sat up. "He said something about your left hand, let me see it."

"It's fine, Elle," he said. "Go on." But he reached his hand across so she could inspect it. Satisfied, she laid back down against him.

"Well, I could tell I wasn't saying anything new to him. He'd probably already thought of all those things. I remembered what you'd said about you didn't think he really wanted to run, on some level, so he needed an excuse."

"I said that?"

"Something like that, yes." Her dark head nodded just below his chin. "You said he liked being smarter than other people and running cons, so I just – told him it would be fun to con you."

"What?"

"I really wanted to think of something better, but it was all I could come up with. I said, let him go and you stay, and pretend it's because I talked you into it, and then we'll both refuse to tell him what I said."

She tipped her head up and gave him an apologetic look. "That's it?" Peter blinked.

"I know. It wasn't very good. I said it would drive you nuts not knowing, and wouldn't that be fun? It would be our secret. I almost can't believe he went for it."

Peter found that his mouth was open. He closed it. "I can't either." He squinted at her sidelong. "You promised to keep a secret from me. With him."

She shrugged. "I guess he liked the idea."

"But you're telling me now."

Her face smoothed into the expression she used when she was trying not to tell him she thought he was being a dunce. "Well I hope you don't have any question about where my loyalties lie, Agent Burke," she said.

"No." He took her hands and kissed them. "I married the most brilliant woman in the world."

"Well," she melted. "It really wasn't very clever. He probably knows I won't keep the secret."

Still holding her hands, he looped his right arm over her head and pulled her in close. She giggled. "He knows," he said. "Thank God you called when you did. You gave him an excuse, Elle. I hadn't given him one."

"Are you going to pretend to him that you don't know?"

"No. Never con a con. He's embarrassed me enough."

"What will you do?"

"To him? I'm going to cut his radius in half. I can't let him get away with this."

"But he didn't get away."

"Don't tell me you're soft on him, now. Where's all that worry about your husband you had going?"

"My husband looks fine."

"My hand could have been amputated, I'll have you know. He'd cut off the circulation."

"I bet you pulled it too tight." How did she know that? It was scary. "You did, didn't you?" She grinned at him for a second, then turned serious. "I was mad at Neal, too, Honey. I know you have to do something."

"Oh, but you're not mad at him anymore?"

She dropped against his chest again. "He let you go. He let me talk him out of it with a stupid, weak idea for con, of all things. I'm not mad."

"There could have been gangrene," he said plaintively, holding up his hand.

She seized it and kissed it. All this snuggling and kissing and concern was going one place, Peter was sure. It had been a long time since they'd been inspired to some afternoon delight. He kissed her cheek and when she turned her smile toward him, he caught it with his mouth.

Coming up for air, he said, "You think I should try the carrot more than the stick."

"I don't think anything," she said, nuzzling his neck. "But it might drive him crazy wondering why you've changed tactics."

"Oh, now you're going to try the con on me." Peter kissed her ear and worked his way down to her neck. "You really think he should be rewarded for not running instead of punished for – you know?"

Elle lifted her head, looking like beautiful sin. "Honey," she laughed. "I haven't said anything. You're having this conversation with yourself. Besides, I told you, you can't give him what he really wants."

"No, but he asks me for things, all the time."

"Like what?"

"Lots of things." He had a sudden thought, and Elle felt his slight stiffening. She set her chin on his chest and raised a curious eyebrow. He looked at her. "When his tracker first broke, he wanted me to bring him home for dinner."

Elle blinked, then smiled slowly.

"Oh, really?" Peter asked her.

"What's his favorite food?"

Peter shook his head. "How would I know?" Elle shook her head, holding his gaze.

"Oh, right." He thought for a moment. "Lobster."

Elle chuckled. "Why am I not surprised? Lobster bisque it is, then." Then she led him upstairs.


End file.
